A Payment in Arrows
by stick-at-nought shady
Summary: Boromir is plagued by guilty memories, and he knows he is paying for his wickedness with every arrow that hits him. One arrow for the time he nearly killed Aragorn. Another for the time he saw Faramir being verbally abused by the Steward and did nothing. And a third arrow for when he succumbed to the Ring one last time. (A threeshot)
1. Corruption

**I'm using the number of arrows Boromir was felled with from the movie. It doesn't say how many in the book, so I'm using the only source I know.**

**The 'headings' are stylistically supposed to be lowercaps, excepting names. The bold writing is when Boromir is getting shot, and the regular writing is the memories.**

**Boromir's own, controlled thoughts are inside ' '-s. The voice of the Ring in his mind is in _italics._**

**Thank you to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing this chapter. **

**Originally a oneshot, now it's going to be a threeshot. One chapter for each arrow.**

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**the first arrow hit him in the shoulder. for some reason, he thought then of the time he hurt Aragorn, and how he himself knew he deserved the wound...**

"We must scout ahead," Boromir said to Gandalf, his voice sure. "This place discomforts me. I shall not rest until I see if my discomfort is for good reason." The sound echoed off of the dark, shady stone walls that surrounded them. Boromir had spent his whole life in a stone city, but the darkness of Moria unnerved him and made him restless.

"If you must, Boromir, I shall go with you," said an unexpected voice that was most certainly not Gandalf. And it came from behind Boromir, which startled him, as the one who he had intended to speak to was in front of him. The voice was Aragorn's. His face was calm, but there was an odd look in his eyes. Boromir couldn't quite make it out.

"I do not need your assistance," Boromir said indignantly. _The Ring, that is what you want... and you shall receive it. If you but snatch me from Frodo while he slumbers, you shall gain all the power you need to save Gondor... and more. More beyond your imagination. You are annoyed by that Aragorn, self-proclaimed heir of Isildur, are you not? You shall have the power to take his own blade and slit his throat, and his noble blood shall be spilled upon your feet..._ "No!" Boromir could not help but cry aloud. "No, I must not!" he exclaimed. His heart pounded. Take the Ring... save Gondor... kill Aragorn... What had he been thinking?

_It wasn't you_, said the voice in his mind._ It was me: the Ring, the only thing you desire now..._

"Ah, but I could use the stretch," the Ranger persisted. He gave Boromir an odd look. Boromir felt embarrassed for talking to the Ring aloud. "Let us scout ahead, Boromir." Before the Gondorian could protest, Aragorn had grabbed his arm and was all but hauling him off into the darkness.

_He cares not of you, Boromir..._ said the Ring in Boromir's mind. It had a seductive, low voice that Boromir both loved and hated. _When he is King of Gondor he shall throw you into the streets, and force you to live the life of a peasant._ Boromir nearly shook his head. He tried to ignore the Ring's whispers and focused on not looking like a fool being pulled somewhere not of their own will.

"What do you want of me, Aragorn?" he asked, trying to keep the doubt from creeping into his voice. Aragorn stopped, and pulled Boromir around a half-crumbled wall, shoving him against it. Boromir's broad shoulders were flat against the cold stone. "What is the meaning of this?"

_He means to degrade you, to destroy the pride you have left. I thought you'd have realized this, Lord Boromir..._

"There is no ill meaning, if that is what you are asking," Aragorn said quietly. Gray eyes met gray eyes as the two men stared at each other. Boromir saw weariness and warning in his companion's eyes. "Boromir," he said. "I can hear it, too... the Ring. It is telling me I must take it, that Isildur's fate will not be mine if I do so. Its words are tempting, but it promises naught."

Boromir found himself shaking his head. "No, you do not understand!" he hissed. "You do not belong to anywhere- naturally this must be a strange thing for you to comprehend. I, on the other hand, belong to the great land of Gondor! It is to Gondor I belong, to Gondor that I am loyal! You can not_ feel_-" The man felt shame as his voice cracked with passion, "-how much I love my land! It is all but immeasurable."

Aragorn nodded, his face not betraying any emotion. "You wish to protect that land," he said. His hands loosened, and Boromir was a bit freer, not as trapped against the wall.

"See, perhaps you _do_ understand!" Boromir said. "The Ring offers protection against the Shadow of Mordor. I have lived my life under that Shadow, Aragorn. I wish to see my city alight with the light of hope and truth! The Ring offers me that. I must only take it!" The last part was practically snarled. Aragorn did not hesitate as he grabbed Boromir's arms and slammed him against the wall. The Steward's heir nearly cried out in pain.

"It is madness, Boromir!" Aragorn said. The men's faces were nearly touching, they were nose-to-nose. Boromir struggled, but Aragorn would not release him. "If I am to let you go, no one knows, not even yourself, what you may do! You might weep and beg for forgiveness. You might grab your sword and decapitate our Ringbearer. You may kill me, who knows?"

_And that you shall, Boromir! Boromir the Tall. Boromir the Fair. Boromir the Bold. Lord Boromir of Gondor. Is that all you want to be known as? You could be Boromir the Mighty! Boromir the Wise! Even Boromir the King of Gondor! _

'But Aragorn has never been anything but truthful with me!' Boromir found himself thinking, rebelling against the Ring.

"Shall I tell you a story, Boromir?" asked Aragorn, knowing of the struggle in the other man's heart. He went on without letting Boromir get in a word edgewise. "I believe you shall find it rather interesting, if I do say so.

"Not so very long ago, there was a creature named Smeagol. The creature... how do I describe it... it was much like a hobbit, but it lived not in a hobbit-hole under the hills, but in a small, wooden shack by the Anduin. It was not the only one of its kind. There were many of them. I know not what they are called, so I shall refer to them as the 'river folk'.

"These river folk were very good people. Very merry, according to the one whom I heard this tale from. They were, as I have said, much like hobbits, and as the one you know incessantly follow you around, asking you questions, begging you to sing cheerful songs with them, you know how hobbits are."

The struggle in Boromir's features lessened a bit as he thought of the hobbits. Indeed, though Frodo the Ringbearer was a bit wary of him, and therefore Sam was too, Merry and Pippin had no problem with Boromir, and looked up to him greatly. Boromir had many times found himself wishing, if I ever have children, I want them to be just as these two hobbits are. The Gondorian had always cared for those that needed protection...

"Smeagol, in particular, was one of the most curious little river-folk imaginable. He longed to see things, he was very observant, and he loved the land. Not so unlike you, Boromir," Aragorn said. Boromir made a sound of protest, and a fire raged in his eyes. Aragorn held him against the wall still. "But one day -the creature Smeagol's birthday, in fact- something very odd happened.

"His close friend, Deagol, found a small, plain gold ring. He scraped the mud off of it, and his wide eyes were focused solely on the ring. I believe you know what is coming, Boromir..." Aragorn said this softly, and Boromir flinched as if a horde of foes were facing him. "Smeagol looked at his friend, holding the ring, and he heard something. Do you know of what I speak of?"

Boromir nodded, feeling oddly fearful, like a small boy being told a horror story by campfire-side. "The voice," he said. "The voice of the Ring, was it not?"

"Aye, it was," Aragorn said. "And Smeagol became tempted by it. So sorely tempted that he grabbed Deagol's neck and squeezed it. His friend's eyes bulged, and he struggled. Deagol tried to breathe in, but he could not, and his face turned blue. Smeagol's small hands would not stop choking the life out of him. Then Deagol collapsed on the ground, stone dead, and Smeagol took the Ring of Power for his own.

"The Ring had corrupted him, Boromir, you see. All he heard was its voice, saying that Deagol was going to give the Ring to him, but instead was so jealous of its beauty that he kept it. And so Smeagol knelt over his friend's dead body... and laughed," Aragorn said. His voice was cold.

Boromir felt his stomach lurch, and it was all he could do not to retch. "Stop, Aragorn!" he said. "Your words make me ill." His face had gone very pale as he pictured the murder. Aragorn relented, and stopped describing that particular scene.

"So you see, Boromir," he said, "how much the Ring can do to you. It can warp your mind, twist your emotions, until you see friend as foe. It will be the fixation of your life, the only thing you want..." He didn't realize it, but he had all but echoed the Ring's earlier words to Boromir. _ ...the Ring, the only thing you desire now... _Boromir opened his mouth to say something but clenched his lips shut as bile rose in his throat. 'You will not!' he thought determinedly, 'not, get sick on the future King of your people!'

When he was not speaking, someone else did, though. _He is lying, Boromir, _hissed the Ring's voice. _He wants it for himself, that is why he is telling you not to take me... He is comparing you to some river rat. Kill him, he deserves death and beyond! _

Before Boromir knew what he was doing, he had kicked Aragorn's legs out from under him and drawn his sword. The ranger let out a cry and drew his own blade. _Good, very good!_ the Ring told Boromir. _Now kill him!_ Boromir's heavy foot came down on Aragorn's ribs, and he heard a satisfying snapping sound. _He cares not of you! _

"Boromir! Cease this at once!" Aragorn said, his voice tinged with desperation. "Boromir-" Boromir's blade went swinging at his head, and he quickly blocked it, scrambling to his feet. "Ignore the Ring, Boromir, I beg of you, as a friend!" Little did Aragorn know, Boromir did not hear him. He only saw his companion's chapped lips moving, heard only the Ring egging him on.

_Keep fighting, Boromir! _The Gondorian struck Aragorn's back with the hilt of his sword. _Next time with the blade! _

But Aragorn had started to call out, "Mithrandir! Legolas! Gimli! Merry! Sam! Pippin! Everyone but the Ringbearer, come to my aid! Boromir has taken leave of his senses!" The clattering of feet behind the two men showed Boromir that the Fellowship was rushing to Aragorn to save him.

_Kill them all, then! _the Ring said. _All of them! _Aragorn was growing weaker- he had now a cracked rib, a dangerously bruised back, and, with a slash of Boromir's sword, an injured hand. Aragorn was knocked to the ground again, and Boromir put one foot on his chest, leaning down to scrutinize his victim. He lifted Aragorn's bleeding hand and his royal blood flowed onto Boromir's fingers. He caressed Aragorn's hand- not gently, instead forcing more blood out.

"Boromir! I do not mean any harm!" Aragorn begged, his hand streaming blood. His cursed blood, the blood that had once flowed in the veins of Isildur...

But just before Boromir could injure Aragorn further, he was knocked off his feet. The whole Fellowship (of course, excepting Aragorn, Frodo, and himself) had leaped at Boromir, trying to hold him down. Even old Gandalf had, seeing the madness in Boromir's eyes.

"Boromir son of Denethor of Gondor!" Gandalf said as he and his companions held Boromir to the ground. "Speak for yourself, if you can find words foul enough!"

The man heard naught. He just lay there, struggling dumbly, the Ring whispering in his ear. With one hand, he punched Pippin in the face. The hobbit let out a shout of pain and started to cry at his friend's betrayal.

Legolas said something he could not hear, and the Fellowship started dragging Boromir off into the dark. _They are going to abandon you here in the darkness! _the Ring said. _Remember how your brother Faramir feared the dark as a boy and how you would comfort him? No one shall comfort you! _But the Ring's voice was getting weaker as Boromir was dragged farther from the Ringbearer. Then, suddenly, it stopped.

With horror, Boromir looked down at the blood staining his hands. His pulse quickened. What had he done? He didn't see Aragorn. No! he thought, dismay and guilt taking him, I've gone and killed Aragorn! Tears welled in his eyes and threatened to spill out.

"Where's Aragorn? Did I kill him? Did I kill Frodo? Did I hurt you?" Boromir asked, the questions pouring out of his mouth. "I am sorry, so sorry-" He then heard crying from behind him. He turned to find Aragorn struggling to get up, and Pippin beside him, wailing... Boromir saw what he had done, and the tears started running down his face.

"He is behind you," Gandalf said. "You did not kill him or Frodo, but you have injured Aragorn. You hit Master Peregrin rather callously, also." Boromir tried to wipe the wretched tears off his face, but he couldn't stop them from coming.

"I must leave, Gandalf!" he said. "I cannot control my own thoughts now. I must leave you."

"No!" said Gimli sharply, or as sharply as the gruff voice of the dwarf could manage. "It would be abandonment, plain and simple, if we let you leave. Stay with us, Boromir!" The man's crying had stopped for the most part, and he was startled. 'They don't want to abandon me?' he thought in a rather pitiful way.

"I shall stay," Boromir said. His eyes were focused on one thing- the blood on his strong hands. "But I shall never forgive myself for falling to the Ring."


	2. Selfishness

**Thank you to those who read, reviewed, favorited, or followed! Thanks to Catching Fireflies for Beta-ing once again. **

**This chapter is the memory Boromir thinks of when the second arrow hits him. The memory (the nonbolded part) takes place in Gondor, far before Boromir's memory in the previous chapter. This is not in chronological order.**

**A note: In the flashback, Boromir is 33 and Faramir is 28.**

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**the second arrow hit Boromir in the chest, narrowly missing his heart. the stab of pain was familiar. he had felt it when he had been with Faramir once...**

"Faramir!" called Boromir, his face lit up like a thousand candles with eagerness and joy. "You have returned! It is about time!" No one was listening, and no soldiers accompanied Faramir, so Boromir let himself talk without any dignity. He ran straight to his brother and threw his arms around him, clapping him on the back. Faramir, laughing, returned the gesture. "You are quite pale!" he said, letting go of his younger sibling.

"Ah, that is what happens when you are stuck in dreary caves for shelter and do not see the sun," Faramir said, beaming at his brother despite the bandages on his wounds. "When I came here, she nearly blinded me. How have you fared, Boromir?" he asked. Boromir started walking with him down the hall to his chambers, his boots echoing on the stone.

"Well, I have been better," Boromir admitted. "I have to say, I missed you a lot. No one to tell me that I am beginning to look like a ruffian, no one to insist I learn my Elvish languages, and most of all, no one to tell me I am wrong." Boromir chuckled ruefully.

The two brothers walked into Boromir's chambers, hoping to fill each other in on the time that they had been apart, but they found themselves not alone. There stood a soldier, proud and erect, waiting for them.

"Lords Boromir and Faramir," said the soldier. "The Steward of Gondor requests your presence." Faramir shot a glare at his older brother as if it was his fault.

"We shall go to him," Faramir said with dignity. "You are dismissed." As soon as the soldier walked off, Faramir jabbed his elbow into Boromir's muscular side.

"What was that for?" Boromir said. He was not angry, or hurt in the slightest.

Faramir saw that Boromir was not the reason they had to go see their father. "Was it you that did something?" he hissed under his breath.

"I did nought, I swear!" said Boromir earnestly. "We are acting like children." He grinned, though, and said, "If we are children, you are still afraid of the dark. Was it terrible in the caves, Faramir? Did you have to sleep under a torch?"

The younger brother's heart was lightened, despite himself. Boromir always had that effect on him. "You will always be a child, Boromir," he said. "Let us go see Father. I fear this has to do with my manner of return."

"Your manner of return?" Boromir repeated, walking with Faramir down the hall. "In what manner do you return?"

"Not victorious," Faramir sighed. His face seemed like it had aged years since Boromir had last seen him, but it had only been months. "The Haradrim are running wild. We could not keep them out." Boromir's smile faded. _Father will be not merely devastated, but apoplectic! _he thought grimly.

"It matters not, little brother," Boromir said firmly. "You did all you could to overtake them." The look on his face was troubled, though, as he walked toward the halls in which the throne of the Steward was housed.

He and Faramir entered side-by-side. Upon a black, unadorned stone chair sat Denethor. His dark, glittering eyes were piercing as he looked at Faramir with open malice. Faramir flinched, and Boromir, feeling a rush of pity for his less courageous brother, did not shake off Faramir's hand when he gripped Boromir's arm.

"So you have returned without victory," Lord Denethor said, contempt creeping into his voice. He stood. "Boromir, you may leave if you wish." But Boromir was rooted to the spot like an ancient tree. "Come forward, Faramir." Faramir looked composed, but his eyes were wild. Boromir pried his younger brother's fingers off his muscular arm. Faramir walked toward Denethor. His hands, clasped behind his back, were shaking.

_Treat him as you would me, Father... _Boromir thought helplessly as Faramir walked forward. _He fears you thrice times more than the Dark Lord himself, thanks to your attitude toward him! Treat him with respect. _He thought that over and over, as if that would send a subconscious message to Lord Denethor. _Faramir, remember, I am here, _he added. _I am here, do not worry... _Boromir hoped his presence would help Faramir's nerves.

"We have slain many of the Haradrim," Faramir said. His voice was unyielding to his anxiousness, and Boromir felt pride for the strong heart of his brother. "But we were forced to retreat, because if we had not, none would have returned."

"Better to have none return and the battle won than to have the men retreat," Denethor spat. Even though it was not directed at him, Boromir winced. He could not see Faramir's face, and he was glad for that. He could never stand it when his brother was in pain.

_Please, Father, please do not say those things to him!_ he thought desperately. Boromir knew full well that Denethor's words were like swamp-lights: Follow them and you will be wallowing in a mess beyond your control. Only instead of drowning in a bog, Denethor could make you drown in guilt.

Faramir's hands were still shaking behind his back. Boromir longed to call out to him, to tell him not to worry. Faramir shifted his weight nervously, and Boromir bit his lip hard to keep from telling Denethor not to be so cruel with his own son.

"I shall... I shall remember that next time, Father," Faramir said. His voice broke and he looked down in shame. Boromir felt his insides writhe in pain. He was almost overcome with the desire to grab Faramir and drag him from the room.

"You shall call me Lord Steward, and I should rather there be no next time!" Denethor said, his eyes flashing dangerously. Faramir exhaled loudly and shakily. Boromir could tell his younger brother was almost driven to tears. That worried him greatly, as Faramir rarely cried in front of people, especially the Steward. Boromir assumed it was due to his injuries and overall tiredness.

_He has just returned from battle, and a valiant fight he put up too! Faramir is weary, and still you scold him! _The words were on the tip of Boromir's tongue, but somehow he could not bring himself to say them. _Denethor shall despise me as he does Faramir if I speak out... _he thought.

"No son of mine should ever do something so feeble!" the Steward said. "Certainly, Boromir has not done so! My father did not do so! I have never done so! But you... you are softhearted! Weak!"

With every word, Faramir's stance drooped. Boromir saw his brother twisting his hands behind his back nervously. But yet, by some strange force, he could not bring himself to say anything.

"Your brother has never done something so foolish," Denethor said again. His eyes focused on his elder son. Boromir's skin crawled as his father stared at him. "Have you not, Boromir?" Faramir turned around to see his brother. His jaw was clenched, but his face looked like he was a second from weeping. Boromir was shocked, and a bit afraid. _Is this it? Is this going to be the time when Faramir is brought over the edge, and cries in front of Father?_

Boromir stood strong, pretending like he couldn't see Faramir. "I have not, Father," he said, holding his head high. Faramir gave his elder brother such a look that Boromir flinched. 'You have betrayed me,' Faramir's look said. 'Chosen this man that calls me a coward over myself.' When Denethor's gaze was drawn back to Faramir, Boromir tried to shoot his younger sibling a glance.

_Faramir! _he thought, once again wishing his brother could hear his thoughts. _Do not look at me so, I beg you! I care about you so much it hurts to see this happening to you! But do you not understand that I have a role too? I have to be strong, little brother. I care about you!_

But Faramir's gaze told him, 'You care about me, true, but not enough to say so and defend me in front of our father.'

Boromir averted his eyes and stared at the air above Denethor's head, trying not to let his pain show on his face.

"You see, Faramir!" Denethor said triumphantly. "You do not deserve to be my son." The words brought Boromir to the end of his rope. He outwardly flinched at the cruelty of Denethor's words. Eight mere words- with so much power behind them that Boromir shuddered.

Denethor looked at his oldest son. "Why do you cringe, Boromir?" he asked.

Boromir nearly shouted. He nearly said, 'No one deserves the shame of being your son!' He nearly drew his sword. But the selfish part of him took over, and Boromir thought of his own self. If he shouted or fought his father, he would be cast from Gondor, a traitor to the land. But would he be willing to have that happen, if it meant he could avenge Faramir?

"For nought, Father. There- there is a cold draft coming in," Boromir said to Denethor. "It is nought to worry over."

"I see," Denethor said. He directed his eyes back to Faramir, and his stare turned into an open glare.

"I- I shall do anything," Faramir said. "Anything for Gondor." Boromir knew, with a pang in his heart, that it was truth. He and Faramir were quite different, but that was one matter in which they were exactly alike. "I also seek to preserve my life and my men's lives."

Denethor let out a sound that could be called a snort. "And what do those things matter?"

Faramir's hands clenched around each other as if choking something in between them. Boromir wanted to call out, or to run to the side of his brother, but his feet felt as heavy as stones. One part of him wanted to say, "Those things matter to me!" Another part of him told him to stay there and keep silent.

A choked sound came from Faramir's throat, and Boromir's blood turned to ice. _Faramir, do not cry, please do not cry, that's what he wants, remember, you need to be strong too... _Boromir thought as if Faramir could hear him. But he could not, and Faramir kept making that awful sound deep in his throat, trying not to let Denethor hear or see his held-back tears...

After a battle, Boromir always had a lingering adrenaline. He would return to Minas Tirith and bring news of his victories to the Steward. Then he would stay up the entire night, feasting and drinking with his men. It was not until he fell asleep and woke up that he felt the weariness of a fight.

Faramir was an entirely different matter. Boromir remembered many a night where he had walked to Faramir's chambers to bid him goodnight after his returns to the White City. He would find his little brother lying in bed, bandages on his wounds, limp under his covers, murmuring his body count and weeping. Faramir did not have a soft heart. He had a good heart. He was unhappy with death, and it never mattered who he had slain. Boromir would always stand by his bedside and watch over him until he fell asleep.

The youngest son of Denethor was not one for the death and destruction battle brings. He was not one for merely standing and taking his father's cruelty, either- except after a battle. Faramir was always wounded, tired, unhappy, and guilty. Denethor was like a snake, always knowing the exact moment to strike. For Faramir, that time was always after a battle.

Boromir jolted back to his surroundings when he heard Faramir's trembling voice. "They matter," he said. "They matter and... and you do not accept it." Faramir started to turn to go. Boromir caught a glimpse of his brother's blotchy face and red eyes, and pity stabbed at his heart. Faramir's eyes spoke for a second: 'You stand by and watch these things said to me, Boromir. Where is the loyal heart I know you have?'

Faramir nodded to Denethor. Even with tears running down his face, he felt the need to bow. Boromir felt struck by this show of loyalty under pressure, despite his anger at Denethor. "I take my leave," he said. Avoiding looking at Boromir, Faramir quickly strode out of the Steward's throne room.

Boromir knelt respectfully to his father. He felt as cold as ice and as vengeful as fire at the same time. "I also," he said. He walked out after his brother, feeling Denethor's cold glare pierce through him. _By the Valar, Father can see into my very soul! _Boromir thought, hoping to evade Denethor when he walked out of the room. But when he shut the doors of the Steward's throne room behind him, he could still feel his father's glare.

"Faramir!" he called, even though he knew his brother had probably sprinted to his chambers. "Faramir!" Boromir yelled his brother's name until he came to Faramir's chambers. The doors were shut. "Faramir? May I enter?"

The sound of badly muffled sobs echoed from the inside of the room. Boromir turned around so his back was to the room, and he slumped against the doors. He rubbed at his temples, one of his nervous habits. _Dammit, why did I not say something? Why did I not do something to stop Father from saying those things? Why? _

_Because you are selfish! You do not even stand up for your own brother! For Faramir! You love Faramir, and you stand and watch him weep! _he thought, countering himself.

_And now you are talking to yourself inside your head. Boromir, go inside that room and tell Faramir you care about him and that you do not know why you did not say something! It is the truth! _

But Boromir son of Denethor stood outside Faramir's chambers, one fist raised, about to knock on the door, for quite a few minutes until he finally decided to leave his brother to weep alone.


	3. Succumbing to the Ring and Death

**Thank you for the feedback, follows, favorites, and the time you took to read this! This is the final chapter of this threeshot, but not the last LotR fic. I currently have an idea for a multichapter floating around in my documents, and I have a parody published.**

**I am using a few lines from the book, and some of them are slightly changed.**

**Once again, the Ring's voice is in _italics_, and Boromir's free thoughts are in ' '-s. The memory is nonbolded and the bold is what is happening as he's dying. **

**An exemption to the above- under the last bolded heading is not a memory- it's Boromir's death scene. I just thought it'd be stylistically awful to have the last part all bolded.**

**Starts the night before the events on Amon Hen, and time-skips to right before Boromir follows Frodo. The last section, as I've said, is Boromir's death.**

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** the third arrow hit Boromir like a punch in the gut, and he remembered the night before he fully succumbed to the Ring's power for the last time...**

_And here we are again, Boromir of Gondor. Here you are, here I am, and you still do not claim me._

Boromir froze in mid-motion, one leg petrified in midair as stopped stepping over a sleeping Peregrin Took. Aragorn looked at him oddly, and Boromir felt as if his soul was being examined. 'The Bearer sleeps, the Ring does not', Boromir thought to himself, his pulse racing. He gave Aragorn a smile, but it felt uncomfortable on his face. Boromir kept pacing around the camp.

_I will never sleep until you give in. And neither will you._ The man shuddered.

"I shall never give in," Boromir whispered into the night air, his voice hoarse and tinged with weakness, to his own horror. 'No, no, no!' he thought. 'You are not weak!'

_Oh, but you have already given in,_ the ring told Boromir matter-of-a-factly. _Have you already forgotten what happened in Moria?_ The Gondorian's blood turned to ice as he marched through the camp nervously.

"No, I have not..." he murmured, seeing red blood on his hands again. "I never shall forget."

_Are you honestly guilty for that? How can you be? This self-proclaimed heir of Isildur only wants me for himself. You should have destroyed him, along with everyone else in your company. They care not of Gondor, or of you! You are only here to protect my Bearer. You are there to be strong for your weak Fellowship._

Sweat trickled down Boromir's face, and he fought the urge to bite his nails again. "They are my friends; I shall not harm them or see them harmed," he said quietly. He wiped off his forehead nervously.

_And what have they done for you?_ The Ring's words cut into Boromir like the sharpest of knives. _Nothing. Nothing at all. They are slumbering. Slit their throats! Do you remember how you felt when there was blood on your hands and you were near me? Remember the excitement in the pit of your stomach, the desire to see more of your deeds done?_

"Enough!" Boromir hissed, feeling slightly sickened.

_It is never enough, Boromir. You must get your revenge on them. They are enemies of Gondor, and therefore enemies of you. They think you are only good for your strength. They whisper about you behind your back and plan to abandon you soon. They hate you. They hate us._

Boromir felt the Ring's poisonous words soak into his mind, and then his rational side felt no more. "We must kill them," he said. "Now." Excitement rushed through his veins. They were enemies and he had to kill them. He would be hailed as a hero in Minas Tirith for slaying the foes.

_Draw your sword, Boromir the Mighty!_

Dimly realizing he had stopped pacing, Boromir unsheathed his long sword. He gripped the hilt with white knuckles. It was silver, and expensively forged. His eyes went crossed as he stared at the blade, eager to see it bite into someone's neck.

"Boromir!" a voice cried, interrupting Boromir and the Ring. "Sheath your sword at once!" The voice was sharp and commanding. Aragorn. The Ranger strode toward him with his familiar long-legged walk and glared at Boromir, looking straight into his eyes.

Instead of obeying, Boromir slammed the hilt of the sword into Aragorn's gut and knocked him to the ground. "Boromir!" Aragorn's voice betrayed pain. He got up, clutching at his newly-bruised stomach. Swiftly, he knocked the sword out of Boromir's hand. He grabbed the Steward's son by his tunic collar and started dragging him away from the camp. Boromir dug his hands into the ground and tried to stay where he was. In response to that, Aragorn grabbed Boromir and slung the younger man over his shoulder. Aragorn nearly fell under his weight, but kept walking determinedly, though he was stooped over greatly.

_What have I told you before, so many times? He treats you like a child, and expects you to bow to him!_

"We shall never bow to him!" Boromir heard himself snarl, his clenched hands thunking into Aragorn's thighs as he was carried off. "Never!"

"I said nothing of bowing," Aragorn said, breathing heavily as he carried Boromir right to the edge of the Anduin. "And you are your own man, Boromir. There is no 'we'. Only 'I'." His voice was firm, and though he could go no farther, he held Boromir over his shoulder still.

"We hate you!" Boromir heard his own voice spit. "We hate you!" His fists pummeled at Aragorn's muscled legs. "We... hate..." he murmured. Then his body went limp, and he felt his face flush in hot realization. "Oh, holy Valar..." he said, tears prickling in his eyes. It was a familiar feeling- after the Ring's influence left him, he was always reduced to tears.

"Shall I let you down now?" Aragorn said, yet he had practically dropped Boromir already. The Gondorian was a heavy burden.

"I cannot apologize this time," Boromir said miserably, hating the weakness in his voice. "I must leave. Aragorn, I am too weak to be here. Let me take one of the boats! I cannot even keep watch peacefully without hearing it." His voice shook, and he tried not to weep.

In response, Aragorn knelt to the ground and set Boromir down on the ground next to the Great River. "Hush, Boromir. I will hear no more of that. You are one of the Fellowship. You shall stay with us."

"I am a traitor and a danger to you all," Boromir insisted. In one angry motion, he swiped the tears off his face, ashamed by them. "I sound like that creature you told me of back in Moria! I cannot sleep, I can barely force food into my stomach, and I hear the Ring so often my head aches!"

Aragorn sat down next to Boromir, a concerned look on his face. "Boromir, it is all right to weep. No one is awake. You did not cry out loudly enough to wake them from their deep slumber. No one but you and I."

It was as if a dam broke. Boromir's held-back tears slid down his face, and he choked back a sob. "And the Ring," he said. "It is always awake, it tells me so, and says both it and I will never sleep until I take it..." He pressed his face into his hands, embarrassed by his crying.

"We are far enough from it that it cannot influence you," Aragorn reassured him. "No matter what the Ring tells you, we are your company and your friends. We would not hurt you unless you hurt us." His words were meant to be reassuring, but Boromir only heard the Ring saying the opposite of what he was saying.

"But I did hurt you," Boromir mumbled, nearly all cried out. "I tried to kill you, and for a second time."

The Ranger could find no words to say to that. So he just said, "I shall watch alone. Sleep here. It will be a much more peaceful sleep, I can assure you."

"Aragorn?" Boromir asked as the Ranger got up to leave.

"Yes?" said Isildur's heir.

The other man hesitated, wiping tears off his face. He looked up at his friend. "I would never attempt to hurt you if it were not for the Ring," the son of Denethor told Aragorn. He felt it needed to be said.

"I know, Boromir," Aragorn told him. His voice sounded a bit melancholy, and Boromir felt terrible, knowing he had caused that sadness.

That night, Boromir slept so close to the Anduin his clothes were splashed with water occasionally. And, despite the absence of the Ring's voice, he dreamed of unspeakable evil.

* * *

**the man toppled over and leaned up against a tall tree, plagued with visions of when he tried to seize the Ring...**

_Now is the time, Boromir. The Bearer is alone, vulnerable, weak, and you would easily overtake him. For you are strong, you truly deserve to bear me..._

'I cannot!' he thought, 'kill a hobbit!' He knew he must not speak aloud, for everyone was awake around him.

_You would not even have to hurt him. Just snatch me off the chain on his neck and run._

Boromir ate the words up like poisoned honey, and all his reason left him. 'Then I shall', he thought. 'Now is the time, indeed.' He was anxious to get the Ring, at last it would be his! His fingers itched to feel the cold surface of the Ring of Power.

He took a fleeting glance around. For once, Aragorn was not looking at him. He was talking to the rest of the Fellowship about their possible destination intently. Speaking of Gondor. Boromir felt almost happy for a second. Gondor... how he missed his land...

_Go, now!_ the Ring fairly screamed at him.

And as silently as an owl flying, Boromir got up and walked into the forest.

Frodo's trail was not hard to follow at all, but Boromir was not looking for footprints. He was following the voice of the Ring. It got louder as Boromir got closer to Frodo, and soon the Gondorian found him. He was sitting on crumbling stone stairs, looking eastward. His back was to Boromir, so the man calmly stood there. Perhaps it was the Ring speaking to its Bearer, perhaps it was instinct, but Frodo turned then and saw him.

Boromir forced a broad smile onto his face. It was not hard. He was not smiling for the halfling, after all- he was smiling for the Ring. "I was afraid for you, Frodo," he told the hobbit. Frodo had a wary look on his face. "If Aragorn is right and orcs are near, then none of us should wander alone." He walked closer to Frodo, his fingers still itching.

"My heart is heavy, too, Frodo," he said quietly, sitting down next to the hobbit. "Do you mind if I talk with you, now that I have found you?"

_Very good, Boromir!_ the Ring told him.

"You are kind," said Frodo. There was still that annoying distrust in his voice, Boromir noted. "But I doubt that any speech would help me. I know what I must do, where I ought to go. But I am afraid, Boromir... afraid..."

Boromir saw an opening and took it. The Rauros-falls roared near to the two, but nothing was loud enough to drown out the Ring. "I wish to help you. Will you take my counsel? Surely you will need it."

Frodo looked a bit scared, and he shivered in the cold winter wind. "I know what you will say, Boromir. It would seem like wisdom," he said, "but for the warning in my heart."

Boromir bristled, offended. "Warning? Against what?" he asked. His voice was sharp with anxiety. He could not stand to wait another minute: he wanted the Ring! And he was not in the mood for waiting.

"Against trust in the strength and honesty of men," Frodo said bluntly. Boromir inwardly flinched at the words that felt so obviously directed at him. Ire made his blood curdle and boil.

"We have kept your quiet little country from being overrun with war," Boromir said angrily.

"I know," Frodo said simply. He looked at Boromir in an odd way.

_He is suspicious of you! Quickly, now, Boromir! You may never get such a good chance to seize me again!_

"But Minas Tirith is not strong enough," Frodo continued. Boromir felt like smacking the hobbit for his insolence. _He doubts in Gondor, Boromir... your beloved Gondor!_ the Ring told him.

"There is still hope we shall not fail," said Boromir in a firm voice, defending his city and the brave men in it. He had a feeling that he would be willing to defend that with his own life.

"There is no hope," Frodo insisted, "as long as the Ring lasts."

Boromir felt a grin creeping onto his face at mention of his Ring... his precious Ring... "The Ring!" he said, and he spoke with excitement. "It is a strange fate that we must suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing. Such a small thing!" He shook his head in wonder. "I only got a small glimpse of it during my stay in the House of Elrond. Could I not have a sight of it again?" He wanted to see that smooth, lovely gold...

_Do you remember Bilbo's poem? How he said "All that is gold does not glitter"? That is not true, is it? I am gold, and I glitter with a light like you have never before seen._

The man strove to keep his face friendly and kind. He knew that he must appear oddly happy, though. Boromir could not conceal it, for all he tried.

"It is best that the Ring remains hidden," Frodo said. He shivered suddenly as he looked into Boromir's eyes.

"As you wish. I care not," Boromir said. He found himself talking of the enemy, the Ring, and Minas Tirith, saying that the Ring would be of use in Gondor's able hands. His voice spun the evil, stinking straw that the Ring truly was into the loveliest of gold. He spoke that he himself would be a powerful, wise ruler and all would obey and respect him. He paced around Frodo in a circle like a wolf cornering in on its prey. Boromir planned alliances with other lands, the new towers that would be erected in Minas Tirith. All the while, the Ring whispered in his ear, speaking the same words.

He stopped all of a sudden. "And you tell me to cast that aside!" he said with spite. "It is folly! Come to Minas Tirith, hand the Ring over to the house of the Steward! We shall use it well, and destroy Mordor!" One of Boromir's eager hands seized Frodo's shoulder, and Frodo flinched and turned away. "Lend me the Ring! I shall use it for good only, I swear! Lend me the Ring, Frodo!"

Boromir heard his own voice screaming at the halfling, felt himself tackle Frodo to the ground. Felt Frodo dodge him. "You cannot keep me from taking it! I am too strong for you!" he shouted. He still could not see the Ring, but he could hear it and feel it.

Then for one instant, he saw the Ring. Its gold sheen was so wondrously beautiful and entrancing to Boromir's eyes that he stared at it in amazement- but then Frodo put in on and dissapeared. And he knew he had been tricked...

"Curse you!" he howled, stalking around, trying to feel for the hobbit. "Curse you and all halflings to death and darkness!" He was so intent on getting his hands on the miserable trickster -and, if he could, the Ring- that he tripped over a stone and fell flat on his face.

_You still can run! Get up..._ the Ring started.

Then the Ring's voice ceased- its Bearer had gone too far from Boromir for him to be influenced by the Ring's power.

Boromir felt as if he was an insect trapped inside amber. He did not budge from the ground. He felt his hands trembling. All happiness and excitement had left him, and he was truly himself again- a weary traveller with a mind that had just been corrupted.

'You are going to weep', he told himself in his thoughts, as if trying to warn himself.

"No, I am not," Boromir said aloud. He knew he was wrong- the Ring never failed to make him weep after its words were gone from his mind.

But as soon as he spoke, he burst into guilty tears so loud and gut-wrenching he was afraid that he might be sick from them. His fists pounded out a rhythm on the forest floor that was accompanied by the sad music of his weeping. He did not see any blood on his hands, but he knew he must have done something terrible.

"What have I said? What have I done?" he wailed. "Frodo! Frodo, come back! A madness took me, but it has passed. Come back!" Hot tears ran down his face, and he vowed something there and then:

"I shall pay for this. And the only price for what I have done is death, so Valar please allow me to pay for my behavior in that way..."

* * *

**Boromir heard his own voice, in his mind, vowing that he would pay for his mistakes, and he thanked the Valar for letting him keep his promise...**

Boromir heard a voice and slowly forced open his eyes. He felt as if his eyelashes were tied together, making his eyes stay shut. At last he saw who had approached him: Aragorn.

'Aragorn!' he thought. 'I never have said it before, and I doubt I can say it now, but I admire you, and you are more than worthy to be King...'

He struggled to talk. His lungs were on fire, but he said, "I tried to take the Ring from Frodo." That much he recalled. His eyes filled with tears again. "I am sorry. I have paid." 'I have paid for quite a few things. I have paid for when I attempted to kill you in Moria. I have paid for when I stood idle when Father belittled Faramir. I have paid for trying to take the Ring...' he thought, but did not have enough energy to say it. 'And I have paid for it in three arrows'.

"They have gone," he continued, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly like it might numb the terrible pain he was feeling. "The halfings. Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them."

Eyelashes tangled together again, and he shut his eyes as a burst of pain went through him. He struggled not to cry out or weep. "Farewell, Aragorn!" he said, opening his eyes. "Go to Minas Tirith and save my people. I have failed." He thought of his city, of Gondor, of Faramir, of Denethor, of the Fellowship, of the terrible Ring and its alluring voice... and a tear trickled down his cheek.

"No!" Aragorn said firmly. He took Boromir's unoccupied left hand in his own and held it tightly. He leaned over the Gondorian and placed a tender, brotherly kiss on his brow. Boromir felt Aragorn's sweat and blood trickle onto his forehead, but he did not care. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall." Aragorn's face was earnest.

Boromir saw it then: his lovely White City, fair and splendid, not clouded by the Shadow of Mordor.

But he did not see anything more of his surroundings. He heard the Rauros-falls and felt one of Aragorn's tears land on his face. Boromir smelled his own blood. But he only saw the wonder of Minas Tirith, Aragorn forgiving him for his losses of control, Faramir forgiving him for his selfishness, the White Tower in its full glory... For he knew he had paid for each incident with an arrow, and now he was redeemed.

And for the last time in his short life, Boromir of Gondor smiled.


End file.
